Orbit

My kids are getting older. Well, we're all getting older, but time moves differently with children. I can still remember how completely our lives revolved around them when they were young. Everything was ordered by when they would be hungry, need a nap, or need space to let their imaginations run wild. Our days were shaped by the things we knew and our ability to cope with the things we didn't.

Now, I count myself lucky if I see all three of them in the same week. One has already set off to build a life of his own and find his place in the world. His life is full of many of the same questions I wrestled with at his age. We've taken different paths, but the search for who we are and how we want to live remains the same.

The other two are practicing their independence, living in that space between needing us and not wanting to need us. Every day they discover a new skill, a new interest, or a new piece of themselves, and pull away a little more. My rational self knows that's exactly what growing up is supposed to look like.

Still, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of losing them and the joy they bring to even the most ordinary moments. I'm afraid of how quiet the house will become. I'm afraid of being unable to protect them in this complicated world. And I'm afraid of figuring out who I will be when I'm no longer needed in the role of mom every day.

Since becoming a mother, I've taken a Mother's Day picture with my kids every year. It's one of the few times I want to be in front of the camera. Those photos have become treasures, and looking back at them feels like opening a time capsule. This year, only two of the kids were in the picture—just one more reminder that time keeps moving forward.

But as I looked at that photo, I realized something. While our lives are no longer ordered by nap schedules, snack times, and bedtime routines, I'm still in orbit of these people. The distance between us may change. Their paths may take them farther from home. But they remain the center of some of my deepest joys, worries, hopes, and prayers.

And perhaps that's what motherhood becomes: not holding them close, but learning how to love them as they find their own orbit.

Other Side

The other side of the fence is a tempting place. Things over there are just out of reach. Close enough to see how wonderful it is, and easy to get caught in the 'if only' trap.

If only I were on the other side, things would be better; everything would work out. There couldn't be stress over there on the other side, just look at it, it's so green. There is opportunity on the other side. It's plentiful. I'd never fail over there. And the breeze! Even the breeze on that side looks more inviting, just look how the grass sways.

I find myself doing that more often than I care to admit. "I just need to get through this week." Racing through the things, the obligations. The weekend is on the other side of the fence and filled with a different kind of opportunity. A free space where there is time to develop a strategy, make as many or as few plans as necessary, and enjoy slow mornings that lead to productive (or as productive as we care to be) afternoons. It's all a blank canvas. 

This weekend, we finished a fence we've been working on for a few weeks. Tackling small pieces of a big project as time and weather would allow. No matter how you do it, fencing is decidedly un-fun. It's a lot of work. There's sweating and swearing. Lifting and pulling. Coaxing and cajoling. All to create a new other side. Ironic?

But when it was done and we turned the cows out, it was worth it. They waded through the grass, barely visible in the middle of their new pasture of plenty. 

I could have sat there all day to watch them jump and dance. Enjoying their precious time on the other side of the fence. But I didn't, I was determined to continue my productivity.

When I went to check on them in the afternoon, I found that they had wandered back to where their day began. Standing in the cool shade of the familiar. Enjoying the breeze on the old side of the fence.

There is something comforting about the familiar. The routine predictability of it all. Maybe that's the challenge, to see the other side for what it is, all while knowing that this familiar side has its perks too. There's no need to race through the things, the obligations. They exist on the other side too, maybe just hidden in that tall swaying grass. 

Destination

My family lives about a mile south of the farm. When my kids were little we frequently hiked the 'field road' - a dusty path between the two places. It was never a quick endeavor - getting from home to the farm - there was just too much to see along the way. I treasure those walks, even though without fail there would be complaining at some point. It's a long walk for little legs. 

Several years ago, we purchased a golf cart. In an instant, the farm became much more accessible for the kids and they made the trip often. Ellie loved to go for drives, bumping slowly along that dusty road, gaining a little more independence each day. 

I can't remember the last time I walked that path with my kids. I'd give just about anything to be able to do it one more time. I'd soak in every second of their discoveries, chattering, and hand-holding.

Now we have a side-by-side that makes the trip across even more expedient. What used to be a 20 minute walk is now a quick 5 minute dash. My favorite part of that trip is getting to the top of the hill and looking down at the farm. 

The view from the top is when I'm first able to see my little herd. Three of the cows grazing with one cow playing nanny for the calves. The steers are on the other side of the fence, but they gather close. Together, but apart.

I'll pause at the top of the hill to watch the little splotches for a bit; such a simple thing. Continuing down the hill and into the farm yard, everything comes into clearer focus and the splotches become recognizable. I love how they get excited to see me too - the bringer of food.

A lot has changed since we first toted Gavin over that hill, in a backpack 22 years ago. Crossing that dusty path was something we did together, but as the kids have grown and became more independent it happens less and less... I guess that's the point, preparing kids to be out in the world on their own. Apart, but together. 

I hope they remember that time with some fondness. I'm pretty certain they appreciate the view from the top of the hill, if only because it means they're close to their destination. With the important stuff, the things that matter, coming into clearer focus as they get closer to their destination.

Calving Season

There’s one thing I’ve learned about calving season.

It’s impossible to explain to someone who hasn’t waited for it.

We had four calves this spring. Three heifers and one little bull calf born on May 4th, which meant he was almost immediately named Chewie.

And honestly, four feels just right for this year.

Small enough that every birth still feels personal. Small enough that I can already see the personalities beginning to emerge in the calves if I stand quietly long enough to watch.

Chewie is a current favorite picture so far this spring.

He’s dozing in the sun, his mama nearby, with the tip of his little tongue sticking out. Brand new life, entirely content and unaware of itself. The kind of moment that would be easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

But I am looking for it now.

I know what we’re doing is small.

But maybe significance and scale aren’t always the same thing.

Because when I look at these calves, I can’t help but feel like they represent something bigger than themselves. Not financially. Not operationally. Something quieter than that.

The cows pass along their genetics.
My family keeps stewarding the land.
And somehow those things become connected.

I think that’s what I love most about this place. It reminds me that meaningful things often grow slowly and repeat themselves year after year in ways that look ordinary from the outside.

Four calves probably doesn’t look like much to most people.

But standing in the pasture this spring, it feels like enough.

Coming Back to the Edges

For a long time, this space held the small, everyday pieces of my life.

Lunches packed. Shoes by the door. The kind of tired that only comes from raising little kids and trying to hold everything together at once. I wrote because I didn’t want to forget how it felt—the fullness of it, even when it was hard.

And then, like most things do, that season changed.

The kids got older. Life got fuller in different ways. And somewhere along the line, I stopped writing.

Not because there was nothing to say—but maybe because I wasn’t quite sure how to say it anymore.

Lately, I’ve felt that pull again. Not back to what this space was, but forward into what it might become.

Because something else has been quietly growing in the background.

In 2023, we brought cattle back to the farm.

It wasn’t a grand plan or a big statement. It was small, just two heifers. Intentional, but also a little uncertain. If I’m being honest, my role in it is still small—and in some ways, self-serving. I love it. The rhythm of it. The responsibility. The way it pulls me outside and into something real at the end of a long day.

My dad still runs the farm. He owns it, carries it, knows it in a way I probably never will. What I’m doing doesn’t compare to that—and I don’t want to pretend that it does.

But I am finding my place here.

Not at the center of it. Maybe not even close.

More like… along the edges.

And the edges, I’m learning, are still part of the story.

This land has held our family for generations. There’s something grounding about that—something that makes everything else feel a little less urgent and a little more connected. It's also intimidating—the legacy is another character in the story.

I don’t know exactly what this next chapter looks like. But I'm peaking out, finding my way.

I’m not stepping into ownership or trying to claim something that isn’t mine. I’m just showing up, in the ways that I can. Learning. Paying attention. Letting it matter.

And maybe that’s enough.

So this space might start to look a little different.

Still family. Always family.
But maybe more dirt under it.
More seasons.
More stories about what it means to belong to a place—and to try, in small ways, to carry it forward.

Not perfectly. Not fully.

Just honestly.

I think that’s where I want to begin again.